


Not Again...

by RavenWhitecastle



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Christmas, Doctor - Freeform, Doctor/Raven, F/M, Other, Raven - Freeform, Resistance, St. Marcus Cathedral, christmas doctor who, doctor who - Freeform, saving the universe, tenth doctor - Freeform, the year 3005
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:58:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenWhitecastle/pseuds/RavenWhitecastle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 10th Doctor has just saved the world from inevitable destruction and decides he needs a vacation. With the TARDIS destination set for December 2005, the Doctor sets off for a holiday. But he wasn't counting on sabotage. Instead of 2005, the TARDIS lands 1,000 years later in the year 3005 due to SOMEone tampering with the controls. The Doctor is arrested, and as he's led away, he inwardly moans, "Not again..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to 3005

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little thing I did for English class. It started out as a practice for semicolons and commas, and how to use them properly. But it soon turned into a fanfiction frenzy, and this happened. My English teacher was quite amused by it, and gave me high marks on it, although I doubt she really even knew what I was talking about. It was fun to do, anyways. For all my fellow Whovians out there, here's the 10th Doctor, being his normal, slightly melodramatic self. As he gets arrested. 993 years in the near future. For no obvious reason.

   It was Christmas Eve, and the Doctor had once again saved the universe from seemingly inevitable destruction. As the wind shivered through the silent streets that had almost seen the end of all human life, the Doctor rolled his shoulders, wincing as the joints cracked. He was getting too old for this. Too much panic, too much energy, energy that he didn't have, and an awful lot of running. So much running. His converse tennies has seen SO much running. He wondered if he ought to replace them with something more sturdy, like Nikes. The Doctor shook his head. He loved his converse tennies. He wore them to remember the fourth incarnation of himself, the incarnation he was most fond of. He rather liked being the Doctor he was now, but the fourth Doctor was HIS Doctor.

   As the pain subsided, the Doctor started to walk. He desperately needed a vacation. He'd saved the world for the five hundredth time. (Actually, it was more like five thousand, but who was counting?) Why not celebrate the occasion? With snow falling softly from the starless December sky, the Doctor slipped into his clever blue box and vanished without a trace, the only evidence of his ever being there a small patch of dry pavement, which would be nothing more than a slight imprint in the snow a few hours after.

   Deftly, the Doctor adjusted course, flipping switches and pressing buttons. Destination, New York City, 2005. He'd been alone for too long. He wanted people, excitement, the hustle and bustle of city life. New York was the city that never slept, was it not? He zoomed through the time vortex, the engine wooshing with it's familiar sound. The sound of time itself.

   With a despondent sigh, he involuntarily thought of Rose. It hadn't been long since he'd last seen her, stuck in her parallel world of blimps and earpieces and fancy cell phones, stuck at home with her sociably influential father still alive, her overprotective, overenthusiastic mother from this world, and Mickey. He grinned sadly. Mickey the Idiot, he'd called him. Mickey had just about saved their lives, more than once. Of course, he could never match the Doctor's immeasurable intelligence. But he could drive a car through a glass door and save the entire population of London from the cybermen and fight off a company of Daleks. And even though the Doctor would never, EVER admit it, Mickey was almost half as clever as he was.

   He wondered, as he often did, if Rose was happy. She ought to be. She had her dad back from the dead; she lived with her mum; she had Mickey. But then again, how could she be happy? She'd looked so sad when he'd told her goodbye, so... broken. She'd seen so much, almost too much. He thought back to when she had seen the heart of the TARDIS, the one thing that no living being in existence is EVER intended to see. She'd saved the lives of everyone on Earth, but she'd nearly died. And so, he'd drawn the heart of the TARDIS inside himself, saving Rose but causing his next regeneration.

   That was how he'd ended up here, the 10th Doctor, burning through time. He remembered the Christmas before, when Zycorax had parked over London and controlled all the A-positives in the world. The technology, while ineffective, had been impressive. It was on that day that the Doctor discovered who he was. Lucky, and no second chances. Rose had grown to love the new Doctor, just as he'd grown to love her in return. But what kind of rubbish was he? He'd seen the end of the world with her, stopped World War III with her (and prime minister Harriet Jones), rescued her from the Dalek fleet, and saved the world with her countless times. But he couldn't even save her from the cyberman/Dalek invasion. Rose, the human Rose. That was human nature, wasn't it? To stick with the one that you love, even if it means dying with them? He burned up a sun just to say goodbye, and he hadn't even had the chance to tell her...

   But she already knew. He shook his head, pushing Rose to that place where he kept her, deep in his hearts. "What do you say, old girl?" he whispered, storking the console. "How about one more run?" The TARIDS gave a silent shudder as it touched down on the snow covered pavement. The Doctor slid the TARDIS into park and stepped outside.

   The Doctor instantly felt the change in atmosphere. The crunch of ice underfoot, the unusually crisp, clean air. He breathed deeply, letting the frigid oxygen flow through his lungs like a tonic. But before he could enjoy the spirit of Christmas, things went terribly, dreadfully wrong.

   "Halt!" Two figures in flash suits jumped out from behind a concrete wall and aimed their guns at his two hearts, one at each side of his binary vascular system. "Put your hands in the air!"

   The Doctor's mind buzzed with questions as he raised his arms above his head. What had gone wrong? What had happened? Discreetly, he glanced at his watch. New York City. Christmas Eve. 3005?!?

   One thousand years after his intended destination.

   Three hundred years after the fall of the Allinace of Worlds and the disbandment of the United Nations.

   As the Doctor was handcuffed and led away from his beautiful TARDIS, he groaned inwardly. _Not again..._


	2. I Picked a Fight With a Bobby... And Won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being arrested in New York in the year of 3005, the Doctor frantically plots his escape, terrified of what New York's forces will do to him. His captors, Chav and Demetri, seem to be on opposite sides of the track, and the Doctor quickly realizes that all is not well, not only among the citizens of NYC, but also among the protection detail. The Doctor struggles to piece together what happened seven hundred years ago to make the Alliance of Worlds fall apart, leaving the Earth and everyone in it in ruins. Answers will be unlocked and secrete revealed before he makes his escape. The Doctor will be sure of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What started out as an English assignment on semicolons and commas has quickly turned into a full-fledged fanficion. So, here's chapter TWO in the epic Doctor Who saga, "Not Again..."  
> I will do my utmost to make this interesting for you, but I promise nothing! JK, I hope you like it, it's just fun for me to fantasize. Anyways, here's some more Doctor Who-yness for you to bask in. Enjoy. Chapter Three should be posted soon, sometime tomorrow, later afternoon because I have to work. Merry Christmas, everyone! (I know it's late, but that's never stopped me before.)

   As the Doctor was led away from his time traveling ship, he struggled to find words to express what he was feeling. How had this happened? He couldn't possibly have set the wrong date. He'd been very specific. New York City, December 25th, 2005. So how had he ended up 1,000 years forward in time?

   One of the officers yanked him forward, snapping him from his confused state of conciousness. "Come on, you," the bobby on his right said gruffly, "Let's get ya down to the station. The chief's gonna wanna 'ave a word with you..."

   The Doctor shook his head. "You don't understand, I'm not from here, I'm lost..."

   The copper sneered. "You'll bet you're lost, my friend. Once chief gets through with you, you'll wish you'd never been born."

   The Doctor's hearts skipped a beat. "I don't understand, what have I done wrong? I haven't broken any laws! I-"

   The bobby whipped around and slapped him. "Silence, you! You've broken at _least_ six laws just by bein' 'ere. Another two for the way ye dressed..." The bobby looked disapprovingly at the Doctor's converse shoes. "Where'd ya get those fancy things, anyways? No one 'ere's had shoes like those since 2985, before the dress code was passed." A look of realization crossed the bobby's face. He grabbed the Doctor by the collar and yanked him forward, nose to nose. "You rottah! You got those on the black market, din't ya? This li'l rat's been shoppin' dirty!" He squeezed the Doctor's wrists hard, and he winced in pain.

   The officer on the Doctor's left laid a hand on the big one's shoulder. "Come on, Chav, you don't have to hurt him."

   Chav glanced at the smaller one, then eased his grip. The Doctor gasped, grimacing at the painful, red marks the cuffs had left. "All right, Demetri," Chav said grudgingly, "but when Chief get's done with 'im, this one's _MINE._ " Chav cackled evilly and released the Doctor, clasping one shoulder to keep him from slipping away behind them. The Doctor shivered. He had no idea what Chav had in store for him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

   Discreetly, he glanced at Demetri. He seemed a bit young for a copper, but his face belied his youth. Worry had creased his brow, and long nights had left lines at the corners of his mouth. His hair was coppery, and the Doctor, despite the dire circumstances, felt a pang of jealousy. He'd always wanted to be ginger, but he'd never had the chance. Rose had told him he'd been "just sortuv... _brown_ ," and she'd been right. His thick, unruly hair had been "just sortuv brown." Not "reddish brown," not "golden brown," not even "chocolate brown," just sortuv brown. He sighed inwardly. To be ginger just once...

   _Stop it_ , he scolded himself. _You're in handcuffs in New York in 3005 AFTER the disbandment of the Alliance of Worlds, which means there are no laws on the proper treatment of prisoners. If you get as far as the station, you'll be toast. And Chav here wants to eat you for breakfast. THINK!!!_

As far as Chav was concerned, he seemed sincerely uninterested in the Doctor's well-being, whereas Detri had shown genuine concern. If he could just get Demetri to talk to him...

   "So, Demetri is it?" The young one's head snapped up. "Listen, there's been a mistake, a bit of a misunderstanding, you see, and-"

   Chav, as seemed per his regular, charming self, butted in. "Ye damn right, there's been a misunderstandin'! YOU'VE been loiterin' about in the streets dressed like a black marketeeah, you got no ID on ye..."

   "Oh! But I do!" the Doctor exclaimed, remembering his psychic paper. "I've got identification. If you'll just let me get it out, I can show you..."

   "What kind of identification?" Chav asked warily.

   "I've got an... um... ah..." The Doctor struggled to remember the codes of conduct they'd been taught about the future world. "I've got a... street exit... pass... It's right here inside my pocket, in the lining of my coat. Go on."

   Hesitantly, Demetri slid his hand inside the coat and pulled it out. Flipping it open, he read down the page, checking the credentials. While the paper was blank, the Doctor had programmed it to read, "Doctor John Smith, TARIDS resident. Street Exit Pass, date December 25th, 3005. Excused from demerits on account of official High Council of Law negotiations."

   "Looks legit," Demetri sighed. He handed the paper to Chav, who hissed.

   "It might be real, and it might not," he countered, as he tucked the paper inside his jacket. The Doctor looked longingly after it. That would have come in handy later; that paper was important. If Chav had it on his persons, the likelihood of getting it back was zero to none.

   "...get him down to the station and put it through the Projectory Rotator."

   _Uh-oh_ , the Doctor thought. The Projectory Rotator Machine, or PRM was one of the few things he remembered about 3005. It was a very clever machine, not unlike sonic screwdriver in purpose. It scanned any item in existence and displayed it's origin, known identity, biological/mechanical makeup, and purpose on a hologram screen above. If they ran that paper through the PRM, he really _would_ be toast. They'd know who he was, where he was from, how old he was (933, going on 937, heaven forbid), and that he really WASN'T Doctor John Smith, TARDIS resident.

   The Doctor's mind spun. _Think, how do I get out of here? I can't let them take me to the station, but it looks like they have to walk, no mode of transport. Good because it buys me time, bad because I can't hijack anything to get back to the TARDIS._ The Doctor shut his eyes, feeling a migraine coming on. _Gotta get out, have to get out of these cuffs, must make it back to the TARDIS..._

   "You know, Chav," Demetri inserted, "If the chief finds out you've been knocking the pick-ups around again, he'll stick you in pre-amp. That'll be the third time this week."

   "Shut up, Demetri," Chav growled. "Ye not gonna tell 'im, now, ARE you?"

   Demetri seemed to shrink. "No, Chav."

   The Doctor felt the poor boy's pain. He hated bullies like Chav; the Doctor had been a victim of bullying himself, once, a lifetime ago. Well, more like several lifetimes, but that didn't matter. The Doctor's memories of being forced to roll over at the slightest command, of being walked all over like a doormat, of being treated like Gallifreyan dirt, were too sharp, too painful. He refused to see that dished out to anyone else.

   "Oi, Chav," he snapped, "Stop being so mean to the poor boy. He hasn't done anything to you."

   Chav turned red like a tomato, or more the color of the rare bulleberry fruit the Doctor had once tasted on the planet Skullduggery. "What's ol' carrot 'ead got to do with you, eh?"

   The Doctor sighed with exasperation. "For one, HE'S the one who's taking me to the station to talk to the chief. Two, he's got as much right to speak his mind as you do, and three, no one deserves to be treated like the dirt they walk on. Now I've seen quite a bit in my time- and believe me, there's been an awful lot of it- but I don't believe I've ever encountered any copper as rotten as you are. So leave the boy alone or else!"

   Chav guffawed bitterly. "Or else what, you dirty rotten rattah?"

   "Or..." the Doctor, rolled his eyes at the oaf, "I'll beat YOU into a 'dirty rotten rattah.'"

   Chav froze in his tracks, his face flushed. He could make anyone quake in fear or run and hide in terror if they did so much as say his name, but being mocked was the one thing Chav would not tolerate from anyone, ESPECIALLY not from a black marketeer that he'd nicked off the streets. "You take that back, old man."

   "Yeah?" the Doctor challenged. "You would like that, wouldn't you? Well, it's not gonna happen!"

   Chav roared in anger. "YOU RAT!" With an awful bellow that sounded like the cross between a train and an angry bear, the copper charged the Doctor. But the Doctor had seen a lot of fighting, and a lot of war, and the most unpleasant of both. He ducked sideways to avoid being tackled to the ground. With a thunderous crash, Chav fell to the ground, causing flurries of snow to puff up around him.

   "Chav, leave him alone! He's a prisoner, we can't hurt him!"

   "SAYS 'OO?" Chav shouted. He scrambled to his feet, looking a bit like a bobble-doll, and charged the Doctor again. This time, the Doctor didn't duck. Instead he, pulled his fists back, and, with both hands (as they were still handcuffed together), punched Chav square in the face. Chav staggered backwards, blood spewing from his nose.

   "Come on, big fella," the Doctor taunted. "Is that the best you can do?"

   With a final, furious shriek, Chav barelled forward, and as he did so, the Doctor stuck his foot out and stepped to the left, sending Chav headfirst into the snow and into dreamland, where he would remain for several hours.

  "Demetri," the Doctor called, "Tell your chief that Chavvy here knocked himself out bashing a prisoner, and that because of his negligence, the prisoner got away." He deftly slid his psychic paper from Chav's coat pocket and slipped it inside his own. "Oh, and don't forget that you did your utmost to stop me, but you had to help your fellow officer back to the station. You got all that?"

   Demetri, slightly confused and yet relieved to have someone on his side, nodded. "Thank you... whoever you are," he called back.

   "You can call me the Doctor." With a nod of his head in hasty salute, the Doctor dashed off into the relentless December night, wondering how he was going to get himself out of this one.

 

 

 


	3. The Girl in St. Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor's made his escape from Chav and Demetri, and is now trying to figure out what's gone wrong in New York 3005. Lost and freezing cold,the Doctor follows the mysterious music drifting on the wind to St. Marcus Cathedral just off Bloxham Road. Slipping inside, he finds that there is no service, no clergymen, no congregation. So the question remains, who's playing the haunting music that led him there? Determined to find out, the Doctor sneaks to the enclosed bench only to find... READ TO FIND OUT!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, as promised. I was working it between sorting mail and making phone calls, and quite frankly, I'm rather proud of what I got done. Anyways, here's the third chapter of "Not Again..." Doctor Who fanfic for the win.  
> Here are just a few pointers before we begin. First, I've made quite a few references to previous episodes of Doctor Who, and I would have made more if I hadn't place this at the time that I did. I'm imagining that this "episode" took place sometime after "Doomsday" but somewhere before "Runaway Bride." I realize that in the the show, Donna boards his ship RIGHT after her visits her in the parallel universe, but I don't care. In this case, I don't want to hear anything about "that reference is wrong" or "that never happened" or "that hasn't happened yet." This is purely recreational and is supposed to be FUN.  
> Second, I don't care if he could instantly find the TARDIS or he could bring the TARDIS to him, and I don't care if they don't use red, satin tablecloths for Communion. Once again, this is for fun, and is kind of a conceptual piece at the moment. If you don't have anything constructive to say, don't say it. Third, kind of the same thing, but I don't want to hear anything about geography, either. Bloxham Road's in England, St. Marcus doesn't exist, so what? I don't want to hear any complaining.  
> Now, if we're all on the same page, feel free to enjoy more of the 10th Doctor being his charismatic, slightly confused self.

   The Doctor shivered against the biting cold, wrapping his coat tighter around him. He loved that coat, Janis Joplin had given him that coat. But with nothing but his coat from Janis Joplin and his pinstripe suit, he was defenseless against below-freezing temperatures and bone-chilling winds.

   Still, he struggled onwards, searching for shelter with his body and searching for answers with his mind. Numbed by the cold, his exceeding intelligence wasn't much use, but it kept his conscious mind off of the pain sneaking into his fingers and toes. _That's it_ , he thought determinately, _I'm upgrading to heavy duty boots._

   Between dancing with Chav, wandering along the icy streets, and the mind-numbing temperatures, the Doctor had gotten himself dreadfully, horribly lost. He had no idea where he was. He figured it was a new record. He'd saved the universe, been arrested, picked a fight with a bobby and won, and gotten lost all in one day.

   As he pondered these sudden turns of events, he imagined he heard the strains of music, drifting through the frigid air. He strained to hear it, and he thought he could make out the chorus of "Amazing Grace." On a whim, which he didn't have many of, the Doctor staggered forwards, toward the haunting melody.

   It wasn't long before the Doctor stood before the majestic spires of St. Marcus Cathedral, towering above him like a glorious gateway. Golden light streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful mosaics on the snowy ground below. The oaken doors were shut, the silver knockers silently beckoning him closer. But the Doctor feared what would happen should he enter the cathedral. Would he be labelled as a black marketeer and reported to the authorities? Or would they welcome him with open arms? Wasn't that the job of a parish? To guard and protect all living creatures and do as Jesus would? The Doctor wasn't a man of faith, but he'd duelled with the devil (quite literally, he'd met the evil one in the Satan's Pit on the impossible planet, locked in orbit around a black hole) and won. If there was a such a thing as the devil, and he'd met the one and only, then there had to be such a thing as God. _And_ , he thought to himself, _if all else fails, I have my psychic paper. I'll say I'm a service inspector... or something._ Bolstering his courage, he raised a hand to open the oak doors, when something occured to him. _If there's a service going on_ , he pondered, _and if "Amazing Grace" is playing, then why can't I hear singing?_

Sure enough, when he entered the magnificent cathedral, there was no one in it. The pews were completely empty; there was no congregation. There was no preacher or clergyman in the pulpit. There was no service in St. Marcus. If there was, then there was no one in the church to attend it.

   Again, he thought back to his classes and what he'd been taught. In 3005, he recalled, most churches and cathedrals were closed due to the repealments of the fifth and first amendments. (Most of the other amendments had been repealed, edited, or replaced, but the churches had close due to 1 and 5.) There hadn't been any church services since the year 2790. But _some_ body was in the church (probably illegally), because _some_ body had to be playing the pipe organ. He looked up at the golden pipes reaching for the heavens as he shut the door quietly behind him. Whoever sat at the bench was skilled. He'd learned a few things from hanging around Beethoven and he knew that only the most skilled players would be able to play a circle of fifths that quickly. The chords rang throughout the halls, bouncing off the arches and wrapping around the stone pillars on either side.

   _First things first_ , he thought, _I've got to get out of these cuffs._ Slyly, he snatched his sonic screwdriver and aimed it at the opposite wrist. With a light hum, the cuffs came undone. He sighed with relief and soniced the other side. Tucking his screwdriver in his coat, he tossed the handcuffs in the air and caught them, smirking. _THOSE might come in handy later,_ he surmised devilishly.

   Slowly, cautiously, the Doctor made his way to the staircase that led to the bench. The music was reaching a climax, swelling and vibrating powerfully. As he climbed the stairs looking for a glimpse of the phantom organist, he sang the verse in his head. _Amazing grace, how sweet the sound._ At least that much was true. If this pipe organ was what grace sounded like, then grace sounded beautiful. _That saved a wretch like me_. Well, the Doctor wasn't so sure he was a wretch in any case, but the music was what had saved him from freezing to death. _I once was lost, but now I'm found_. He was still lost, not sure of his exact location, but at least he wasn't stumbling aimlessly through the snow anymore. _I was blind, but now I see._

As the final line was played, he rounded the corner of the walls surrounding the pipe organ seat, and he saw who exactly was playing. He ducked behind the wall to keep the organist from spotting him, then discreetly peeked around to watch.

   The phantom musician was a young girl, no more than seventeen or eighteen, with shimmering, raven black hair down to her waist. It swayed softly as she played the beginning of "Abide With Me." Her eyes were closed in pleasure, and her fingers flew over the keys as each note sounded, clear as crystal from the polished pipes. She wore a simple shift, made of red satin like the tablecloths most churches used for Communion. He reckoned she'd probably made the shift herself, but why? Was she an outcast, not unlike himself? On the run or in hiding? More importantly, was she alone? Did she have anyone to take care of her? Was there anyone else in St. Marcus?

   Who was this girl?


	4. The Remnants of the Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having discovered the phantom musician to be a seventeen-year-old girl, he reveals himself and starts the dig for answers. But when he follows Raven down the rabbit hole, he's not sure that he will ever get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day?!?! AAAAAAAHHH!!! I know the description's a bit lame, not really a lot to it, but there's not really anything to describe. Anyways, he's found the girl, blah blah blah, here he is, being magnificent. (Oh, and I'm sincerely sorry about the "Doctor Who?" bit, it's really cliche, but it had to be done.) Just so each and every one of you knows, I have NO idea where this is going. In case you haven't figured it out already, I'm kind of making this up as I go along. That's how it works with me, you see. I get an idea, which is BY FAR the easiest part of the creative process for me (my creativity for pulling ideas out of thin air is endless), but then the story goes wherever the heck it wants to. I don't really write the story, the story just kind of writes itself. And I guess, in a way, the story writes me.

   Before he could slip away to formulate a plan, the dust he'd kicked up on the stairs floated into his face, and he couldn't supress a rather explosive sneeze. The beautiful music came to an abrupt stop. "Who's there?" the girl called, panic edging her voice. "I demand to know who you are!"

   Calmly, the Doctor stood, holding his hands in the air to show he was unarmed. She whirled around to face him, standing and knocking the bench over on its side. "My name's the Doctor. I don't want to hurt you."

   "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

   The Doctor shrugged. "Front door?" The girl rolled her eyes.

   "Damn it, Folley, I told you to lock that," she muttered. Turning her angry glare on the Doctor once more, she snapped, "Why are you in St. Marcus?"

   "I got lost."

   "Right, they always say that. Now tell me the truth!"

   "Who's 'they?' And I _am_ telling the truth, the coppers picked me up for dressing funny," he balanced on his left foot to show her his shoes, "but I got away and followed the music." He lowered his hands. "You really are good, where did you learn to play like that?"

   She tossed her black-as-night hair over her shoulders. "Taught myself."

   "That's fascinating. How long?"

   "Since I was six. I ran in here to escape the War of a Thousand Faces, and never came out. This pipe organ became my only friend."

   The Doctor vaguely remembered the War of a Thousand Faces. In 2090, when the Fall began, the universe's greatest leaders- presidents of Earth countries, alien leaders, and robot computer control centers- gathered their forces and battled each other in the greatest world war to ever take place. It destroyed hundreds of powerful nations, wiping out entire countries and forcing alien races to retreat into the farthest reaches of the universe. New York had been only one of 154 war bases for plans of attack. "You call that pipe organ your only friend," he prompted, "but who's Folley?"

   "One of the Resistance." She laughed coldly. "Or one of what used to be the Resistance."

   "'Resisting the Great and Powerful Proper since 2193,'" he recited. "It fell silent in 2472, why?"

   She shrugged. "Not enough officers, no intel, more opponents. We started losing, and when that happened, we quit."

   "Quit what? Resisting?" She nodded. "That's it, you just gave up?" She nodded again. "So you're not really the Resistance anymore then, are you? You're just the... the... the Sitters," he spat. "'Sitting on our hands since we gave up in 2472.'"

   "Now, that's hardly fair, 'Doctor.' We ran out of men. There was nothing we could do. No way of getting information, no way of fighting back. We had no choice. It was resist, get thrown in prison, and stop resisting, or play it safe, _give up_ , and stop resisting. Now I'd rather be here sitting on my hands hoping for the slightest chance of bringing it back than rotting in a Propers Prison, wouldn't you?"

   "But why aren't you DOING anything?! You can sit on your hands all you like, but that's not going to bring the Resistance back! Aren't you trying to find more men?"

   "Well, yeah, we've got coded flyers all over the South end AND the Fifteenth District of Clavin, but half of them get picked up and thrown in Propers before they can find us."

   "So why don't YOU try to find THEM?"

   "Excuse me, but WHO exactly are you!?"

   "I told you, I'm the Doctor!"

   "But Doctor WHO!?"

   "Just the Doctor, and," he paused, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully, "YOU haven't told me YOUR name yet. Who are _you_?"

   She crossed her arms defiantly. "Raven."

   "Raven what?"

   "Just Raven."

   He paused. Did people in New York 3005 not _have_ last names? "All right, _Just_ Raven," he challenged, "Why are you hiding out in St. Marcus? You keep asking me what I'm doing here, I could ask you the same question."

   "You just did." He huffed indignantly. "I told you, I'm in hiding. After I ran in here to escape the War, I stayed here. The churches had been closed and no one wanted to inspect a dusty old cathedral like St. Marcus, so I made my home here."

   The Doctor looked pointedly at Raven's dress. "Yes, I can see that."

   Raven shifted uncomfortably. "Folley showed up when I was ten; he was twelve and he'd stolen a turkey from the Fifteenth Hierarchy.That's the hierarchy of the-" she began to explain.

   "Yeah, yeah, I know what the Fifteenth Hierarchy is." He sat down on the wooden bench in front of the pipe organ, rubbing his brow with his left hand. "Let me get this straight," he started.

   "Be my guest," she replied sarcastically.

   He glared at her through his fingers. With a heavy sigh, he began to piece the facts together. "When you were six year olds, you ran into St. Marcus to escape the War of a Thousand Faces. You stayed here and taught yourself to play the pipe organ. Quite brilliantly, at that." He paused, catching his breath. "When you were ten, Folley showed up at age twelve, on the run because he stole a gobbler. The coppers lost track of him?" She nodded. "The coppers lost track of him, and he stayed with you. You've been here a total of ten years-"

   "Eleven," she inserted.

   "My apologies, _eleven_ years, hiding and sitting on your hands because you were part of the Resistance, and the Resistance died?"

   "That pretty much sums it up."

   "But how were you in the Resistance? You've been staying in St. Marcus your entire life, how could you be a part of the Resistance? Folley, I can understand, he was old enough to join when he found you, but you..."

   "My parents were a part of it. That was the one thing they sent with me during the War. They gave me a sack with some provisions and supplies and told me to run and hide. In the sack were their papers and official documents, proof of membership in the Resistance, case files they had been working on, the works. My parents were killed..." She stopped. The Doctor looked up from the intricate marble floor to glance at her. Her expression was pained, sad and reminiscent of days long since left behind. She shook her head and continued. "When Folley showed up, he told me he was part of the Resistance and showed me his papers. I showed him my parents' and we started working in secret. Folley had a friend, Poll. She had a brain for math and geography, and the three of us started working together, a secret, unregistered branch of the Resistance." She smiled fondly. "The coded flyers were Poll's idea. It looks like an electoral poster, you know, 'Vote for so-and-so because this-and-that.' But really, it's a message to anyone who wants to join the Resistance. If they're smart enough, they'll figure out what we're saying and where to find us."

   "When did you start putting up the flyers?"

   "In 2999. I was seven, Folley was thirteen, and Poll was ten."

   "Awful young to be organizing a Resistance branch, don't you think?"

   "Yeah, but we were smart. Smart enough not to get caught. Smart enough to figure out how the system worked." She winked. "Smart enough to play the system itself."

   "If you started posting flyers in 2999, how many members do you have?"

   She smiled secretively. He got a sudden chill as she walked down the stairs to the ground floor. "Come and see for yourself, 'Doctor.'"


End file.
